


Unsustainable

by Teaandcakes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, John in Denial About His Sexuality, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Mary isn't a villain in this, Safewords, Sexuality Crisis, Sherlock's First Time, Smut, Virgin Sherlock, Working it Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-03 20:15:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2886155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teaandcakes/pseuds/Teaandcakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Mary's love life was fine. All fine. Then Sherlock came back from the dead.</p><p>Not series 3 compliant.</p><p>STANDALONE SHERLOCK FIC</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Hollow Victory

**Author's Note:**

> This small fic was inspired by Brokeback Mountain. Not so much the central relationship but the m/f interactions at the side, which I found equally fascinating. 
> 
> This fic isn't related to my Beyond Ourselves series/AU. It's more canon compliant except for some elements of S3 related to Mary.
> 
> Big juicy thanklies to my superBeta Frakme (Not Idiot Proof). All errors and cock ups are due to my wilful nature and all good bits are in many ways down to her common sense and wisdom.

There were many things which had turned John Watson from a business assignment, a job, a mark, into something more for Mary Morstan. 

There was the irresistable draw of a man who was clearly capable of deeply loving another person. Of mourning someone who had died. Of feeling. Not being embarrassed by being a man, and caring. That was, let's be honest here, really attractive to a woman. And the best bit was that the subject of the adoration was as dead as a dodo, and so, unlike a living "ex", this one really couldn't come back and reclaim the prize. Perfect.

There was his quiet determination, too. His compassion for his patients, his friends, even strangers he encountered to whom he owed no fealty but treated them as if he did, all the same. Everyone said the same. If disaster was to come visiting, it was John Watson you would want by your side, taking charge, fixing you up, dealing with any miscreants, quietly, calmly, and when necessary, utterly ruthlessly. 

And of course there was that attractive face, warm, open and magnetic. His trim figure. Not tall, no one could claim that, but that was fine, she was shorter still and she didn't want to look like some kind of baby doll next to her boyfriend. And anyway, what he lacked in absolute stature, he more than made up for in the contents of his boxers. She was impressed. She showed it in her expression and her comments. He was pleased, but not surprised. He'd been complimented many times. Though he'd rather it wasn't always a surprised pleased, would like it to be an expected, "satisfied with the world order" pleased.

.............

Their love life had been strange at first. Most of the time, John was tentative, not shy, but hesitant and self conscious, just as though he was unsure if he actually wanted to kiss anyone, put his hands on anyone. As if someone, a ghost perhaps, might be watching through a window, behind a door, hiding in a wardrobe? 

Yet that was crazy, because He was dead, and even when he was alive John had said that despite what the papers said, what they insinuated, he and the Holmes man had never been in a physical relationship. She knew he'd mucked about a bit in the army, had a bit of a thing with a CO, James Sholto. But he'd had far more girlfriends than male encounters, and he didn't like to talk about Sholto any more than he wanted to talk about Sherlock.

She treated him kindly and with patience, despite the frustration at having to wait and wait. She was a normal woman with a normal appetite for a sex life, after all. But she was duly rewarded at last when, after three months of frustratingly tame fumblings, John finally, finally, praise be, got his act together and screwed her with something like enthusiasm. 

After that, it was fine. Good. Very good. She could rely on John to really tune into her needs and reactions, and he had no hangups about going down on her as often as she fancied. He made sure she came at least once before he did, or at least at the same time. His lovely broad cock more than satisfied her and she was deeply content with their love life. With their life in general, actually. 

She knew he was going to propose. She knew she was going to say yes.

................

And then.....impossibly.....improbably.......He came back. Sherlock Holmes. 

John stayed with her, though, despite that, and they married, honeymooned, all of that. Because it was her that he loved now, it was, she knew it was. 

She wanted him to forgive Sherlock, for them to be mates, buddies, bros, but all this friendship as part of leaving Sherlock behind in terms of anything more than that. Work with him, normalise things, not feel he was forced to exclude the detective, but then John to come home every evening to his new life, and to her, his wife, each evening.

She thought that was the way it would go. 

So stupid. So dumb. Later, she wondered how she had slipped into a blindness that she rarely exhibited.

...........

It was when they came home that things started to change. Well, it sort of started on the honeymoon.

The first thing was that John seemed a bit distracted. Like he was when he had lots of work pressure at the surgery, trying to juggle lots of competing demands. Except he wasn't at the surgery, they were on their honeymoon. He was quieter, more withdrawn. 

The sex had been so good, that it took a little while for her to notice certain trends creeping in to their love life, too. Sex had been spontaneous, and creative. They screwed wherever they felt like it, and emerged satisfied and exhausted. 

Yet, by the second week of the honeymoon, the distraction and subdued atmosphere was spilling over. Or rather, the opposite was the problem. Not spilling over. John......Three Continents Watson, couldn't keep it up long enough for either of them to come. Mary couldn't believe it. John...couldn't deal with it.

..................

It was the Thursday night of the second week of their honeymoon. John was sitting up rigidly in the huge bed in their beachfront lodge, watching the fan blades circling endlessly around above their heads. He held the sheets tight to his body, and wouldn't look at Mary. They had tried twice tonight, and both times he hadn't managed to get wood for long enough. He felt like shit. She felt like she was walking on eggshells. Whatever she said, she knew it would be wrong.

Mary reached across and put her hand over his small strong knuckles, white with tension and suppressed rage. She didn't really know what to say. The fact that she knew from her nursing experience that it was a relatively common problem, did not help make it feel any less humiliating, she knew.

'John. It's fine, we can just cuddle and kiss, I'd really like that?' 

John just shook his head and turned away, switched off the bedside light, and lay down silently beside her. She glanced at his face. It was wet with bitter tears. Mary lay down quietly beside him and tucked herself into his side. Neither slept for some time. When she woke, she found him gone, having showered and dressed without waking her. 

...............

They didn't broach the subject for a while. She rang him a few days later, by now he was back at work at the surgery. She had the week off, and so had been giving the matter some thought. 

'I've cooked us dinner. That vegetable frittata. And a cheesecake, blackcurrant. Bring home a couple of bottles, I've got that DVD, we can make an evening of it?' 

He was late. As he'd finished up at the surgery, she got a text saying Sherlock had asked him to come and examine a corpse in a storage unit in Wembley. By the time he got in at nine, looking dog tired and without the requested wine, the frittata looked more sad and limp than John's cock the previous night. 

'Sorry....'

'It's fine.' (It wasn't). 'Sit down, let's eat it, it will taste better than it looks.'

Later, as they lay in bed, conspicuously not discussing the elephant in the room, Mary decided this was ridiculous. 

'Listen, John. Love. It's probably just stress. Why don't we play around a bit? Maybe it will help you let go?'

John looked miserable.  
'I'm really not sure I....'

'Just give me a chance, love, give it a try?' 

And Mary produced a bag from her bedside table and out of it pulled a not unimpressive dildo. John frowned. 

'For you?' 

Mary shook her head. 

'I thought maybe I could use it for you, if you would like? Given that you've had some history with same sex relationships?' 

She bit her lip nervously. 

John was angry. 

I....yeah. I sucked a few guys off, Mary, gave and received a few handjobs. Fucked a couple. I didn't...I haven't. That. Been fucked. I've not had anything done to me....there. No. Thanks, but no.'

Mary hadn't known this. John had never bottomed then, though he had given blowjobs. She'd just assumed he'd done all of it, that there was switching, she hadn't liked to assume rigid roles as she knew that wasn't the commonest pattern in gay men's relationships. 

..............

Mary sat back against the headboard. There was one other option. 

'Okay, what about me then. Maybe if I'm aroused I'm too welcoming and open for you. Maybe if I'm tighter. I would be....uh....willing to try anal?'

John looked at her. 

'What would be in it for you? Women don't have a prostate so there isn't that? It might hurt, or tear you?' 

Mary curled up close to him. 

'I have done it once before. It was okay. And yeah, for me, we women don't have your prostates so doing it is mainly for your partner, and requires you to trust them completely. But I gain too. The benefit is, if you get your mojo back, then I get my fantastic lover back.'

John lay back with his hands behind his head. 

'You've really thought about this?'

She nodded. 

'Okay, we can try. But you need to tell me the minute anything hurts or you want to stop.' 

...................

The exercise was supposed to gently rekindle John's enthusiasm for sex with Mary. Instead it raised far more questions than it answered. He used the dildo, and then he used his cock, condom sheathed. As he pounded feverishly into her, one hand clasping and covering her own, the other pressing her body down hard, John realised that he was having absolutely no trouble keeping hard. More than that, the orgasm which eventually overtook him, was one of the best he'd had in years. 

It didn't go unnoticed. Mary, stiff and sore from his uncompromising behaviour, said she was pleased with how it had gone, and maybe they could try conventional sex next time. But there was a slight edge to her voice, and a strange light in her eyes as she glanced at him. She'd wanted him to regain his mojo, but hadn't thought that his enthusiasm would have been this...intense.

He was relieved to go to work. And if he was honest, still more relieved when Sherlock said he needed him to help on the case that evening. He quickly texted Mary to say that he might be late, or even stay over at Baker Street. He needed some air, some space, a respite from his sexual performance being scrutinised. 

A weight lifted as he slammed the door shut.


	2. Watching from the sidelines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Um, well. Suffice it to say that John Watson's judgement skills are left at the bottom of a whisky glass.....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will update weekly but as it is Christmas I thought I would publish Chapter 2 early so you can get into the story.

Chapter Two Watching from the sidelines

 

'You're avoiding the question.'

Sherlock stood by the fireplace at 221B, staring at his own pale reflection, and managing to also direct his unblinking gaze at John, who was sitting on the sofa. 

'Yeah, well. It's not really a question, is it Sherlock? Just ambushing me and asking me why Mary and I aren't shagging more? That really is, excuse my French here, none of your fucking business.' 

He sighed and scratched the back of his forearm. Sherlock noticed that the tremor was back. Worse, too, than it had been. His ring finger was especially bad, moving laterally without obvious control. The scratch was an excuse to grip the hand, to control the tremor. 

'You're angry with me. Why?' 

John frowned.

'I'm not angry with you. I just.....don't want to talk about it. Everything's fine, okay? Can we just get back to the paint scrapings from the lockup garage. Why couldn't they have been planted there?' 

Sherlock paused for a minute, looking as if he was about to continue the conversation. Then, looking at the clamped-lip expression on John's face, and apparently thinking better of that idea, he shook a test tube containing small flecks of yellowy-white hued gloss paint, and started an exposition on early 1980s trends in Dulux paint colours, notably the the execrable Rose/Lily/Apple White phenomenon. 

John left of course, later. To go "home", to Mary. Her name crossed John's lips less often these days, and when it did, there was a slight frown that he probably didn't even know he was making. Sherlock was glad, and he didn't care that he probably shouldn't be glad. Her name had become his own equivalent of chalk squeaking and scraping on an old fashioned blackboard. It wasn't admirable of him, he knew. But he never claimed to be a nice person. Nice was dull - and nice was making John dull. But worse than that, much worse, it was making John, his friend John, unhappy.

............

That night John and Mary had sex again this time conventionally. They tried face to face, but that apparently "wasn't working" for John, who was starting to sound angry again, so instead he took her vaginally from behind. That was all fine, and he had no further problems with his erection, but John was again rougher than she was used to, bruising her hips and pulling her hair. She came, nonetheless, put it down to the stresses of his recent performance problems, and waited for him to finish. 

He didn't finish. Instead he withdrew, and without discussing it with her as she lay there sated and flushed, he drew her hips back up to him and pushed his way into her anus. 

She was too shocked to move much beyond a brief wince, too shocked to protest, and anyway, her mind was racing. It hurt. Not only her body, but also her dignity and her feelings. This was not the John she knew? What the hell was happening to them? To their marriage. 

Afterwards, they lay silent and still for a while. Mary moved slightly and then winced. Not so much at the discomfort, though she was feeling it, but more from the unfamiliar wet and slightly oozing sensation. There hadn't been a condom this time.

She didn't tackle why he had done it, which avoided facing the issue which was growing like a malignant tumour. Instead, she just tried to turn back from this emotional dead-end street they were lurching along.

'John. I - I don't think I want to do that again for a while?'. Her voice was slightly unsteady.

John, his hands behind his head, staring up to the ceiling, just nodded. 

'Ok. No more anal. Fine. That's fine.'

His voice was neutral, his face unreadable. John, caring, gentle John, was becoming a stranger to her. He turned over, so she could no longer see his face at all. She didn't know how long it took him to go to sleep, but it took her many hours and she was tired and irritable by the time morning came.

.............

John was at a therapy session. He'd started going again. Mary encouraged him. He wouldn't open up to her, so she needed him to open up to someone.

Ella could tell he needed to get something off his chest. He seemed to start to speak, and then he stopped again. He got as far as saying that things weren't great, physically, with Mary. He didn't get much further. He was hungover, disgusted with himself, and no nearer to being at ease with his situation. He didn't want to talk to Ella about matters sexual, about the fact he couldn't get it up for his wife except when he took her from behind, anally. He knew if he did, that Ella might ask him what he thought that meant, and he really did not want to go there. Not with her, not with Mary, and definitely not with a dark curly haired detective with a tendency to bed-sheet wearing over nudity which had been causing some troublesome dreams and need to keep a folder on his lap at 221B. 

She asked him more general questions, about how things were with him, but he'd settled into a silent reverie of some kind now, fiddling with his thick, serviceable shoelaces and eventually saying he actually had to go, as he was meeting up with someone. 

The 'someone' was a small group of his old army mates. He hadn't seen much of them since he was discharged. John thought it would be good, meet up, have some beers, put the world to rights. Manly stuff. Take his mind off the fact that he was flailing around without any sense of direction and slipping into at least a mild state of permanent anxiety and depression.

In the end, though, he didn't find it helped at all. The drinks glided down a treat, and the darts match was a diversion, but the conversation seemed forced, mainly because John was living a different life from the guys now. He didn't belong anymore, not to them, not anywhere, he concluded bitterly, as he staggered out from the pub. The alcohol made his mood darker and darker.

..............

That night he rolled in around two in the morning, steaming drunk and woke Mary. She'd only just got off to sleep. He made advances, which she warmly welcomed..... until it became clear that he was envisaging more of the "back door" and Mary wasn't having that, not unless she understood what the hell was going on in her husband's brain. And the time for that discussion was absolutely not two in the morning, when he was pissed up and she was sleep deprived. 

John took it badly, and thumped his way out of the bedroom and fell onto the sofa, which was Mary's choice and stylish and fucking uncomfortable. When Sherlock rang him early the next morning, intending to ask for his help on a new case, John instead turned his phone off. Mary rang the surgery and made his excuses, then tiredly got ready for work herself, and left. 

When John woke properly, he had the mother of all hangovers and a growing sense that his life, and his marriage, was going downhill. He was losing control, and he knew the booze could devour him as it devoured his cold and bullying Dad, unless he did something to effect change.

He decided to go for a walk, to clear his head. It took him a couple of hours to get himself up and dressed and convinced that he would after all, live. By the time he reached the end of the street, he was feeling more cheerful. 

He walked miles, his shoes taking on a dusty patina from the city grime. He ate a desultory meal in a sushi bar, shovelling in cartoon oblongs and luridly coloured sashimi. Then, he walked again. Endlessly traipsing, through Bloomsbury, the West End, even as far as Smithfield.

..............

It was nine o clock that night before he considered turning for home, exhaustion seeping into his limbs. He walked through Soho, enjoying the warm evening air and the blessed numbness that tiredness granted him. 

As he rounded a street corner, heading for the Tube, he saw a handful of clubs, their neon signs glittering cheerfully. It was glowing and it was enticing, and his tired eyes awoke a little when he rubbed them. Maybe he could get a drink? More than one? Drink was working for him, right now, and not much else was. 

It was only as he approached one of them that he realised firstly, that it was a gay bar, and secondly, that he was really, really fucking lonely. 

He went in.

It was early still, the club opening until two or three in the morning, and there were just a couple of dozen people in. It seemed like it appealed primarily to gay men rather than women, at least he assumed that, as there were only men here at the moment, including the two bar staff. John walked up to the bar, and the barman, who had been putting away clean glasses, came over and asked him what he wanted to drink. 

'Scotch. Double.", John muttered, frowning. 

The man nodded, and pushed the optic twice to release the precious amber fluid. John paid, and thanked him, then turned to stand with his back to the bar, watching the room, nursing his drink. It made him feel better, being here, though he wasn't sure why. He could feel the barman's gaze resting on him every so often, wondering, no doubt, what John's story was, and what he hoped to gain from coming here for the first time.

If John himself had known the answer himself, he might have been able to enlighten the man. Same as every other lonely man, he expected.

...............

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock was conducting an experiment on various types of tea leaves, but his mind was unusually not on his work. He rarely experienced such interruptions to his concentration and was finding it highly upsetting to have his....equilibrium disturbed. 

The cause of this....irregularity....sat next to him on the kitchen table. His mobile phone, with six calls and six texts so far today to John Watson's number. None of them answered, and John always answered his calls. Everyone did, except Mycroft, who seemed to think high level summit meetings ranked above Sherlock complaining about the colour of the shirts Mycroft had sent. (It was a feature of the unusual relationship between these Holmes brothers that Mycroft effectively dressed Sherlock, sending suits and shirts and even pants and socks to ensure his little brother was as stunningly dressed as his raw materials deserved. He sent ties too, but those were simply abused. The last score of them had been made into a pelmet fringe for Mrs Turners Married Ones. 

Of course this aspect of their relationship would cause gossip, so neither Sherlock nor Mycroft disclosed it. There was nothing dodgy about it, save for Mycroft's aesthetic luxuriation in the vision of his younger brother. Mmmm. Well, possibly that didn't sound wonderful, out of context.......).

Back to John. Sherlock knew John wasn't at his house, nor at work. He knew this, of course, because he'd staked out both of them. Sherlock tried not to overreact to matters of an interpersonal nature, but this was different. This was John, and John mattered. 

Sherlock didn't know what had been going on between John and Mary, but he knew that relations between them was poor and getting poorer. 

After exhausting all John's known contacts and even ringing Mary, who was uncommunicative and tight-lipped when he spun some tale about an urgent case, Sherlock finally admitted defeat, and rang Mycroft. 

'Brother mine. Delightful, as always. I was expecting your call.'

Sherlock frowned down at the mobile. 

'Why?' 

'I imagine you want to know the whereabouts of your.....chum. The doctor?' 

'How do you....oh, never mind, Mycroft. Don't be tedious, any more than you have to. Just tell me what you know.'

He could sense Mycroft smiling (thinly, smugly) at the other end of the line. No sound of eclair wrapper or iced bun lip licking today. That spelled an impatient big brother.

'I can tell you that the good doctor is clearly somewhat confused about his sexual preferences. He seems to have settled on some David Hume-style experiential learning......and is currently dancing with a....oh, no, actually two.....younger and most attractive and lithe partners in a club in Soho.'

Sherlock almost dropped the phone. 

'Partners?'

'Young gentlemen. Dressed, I see, in rather....figure hugging apparel. What apparel they are still wearing. One light brown hair, a little taller than John. The other, dark haired, taller still....about your height. I think they are enjoying the fresh meat, and John does appear really quite drunk. If I had to wager I would say that my newly minted guinea would be placed on the dark-haired gentleman to win the tiny nimble hand of Doctor Watson this night.'

There was an audible click as he turned off the monitor. Sherlock hissed. Mycroft sighed deeply.

'Would you like me to send agents to extract him, Sherlock? You could go yourself, but I suspect it might be too late to prevent John from something he himself might not regret, but which may cause you great grief? Also, you are not adept in dealing with emotional situations, are you? Remember Redbeard?'

Sherlock put his head in his hands. He did not speak for a long time. 

Finally, he put his mouth back to the mobile. He spoke quietly, his voice small and flinty and hard.

'Do not bring Redbeard into this, Mycroft. That's low. Even for you. 

'I can't interfere. John is a free agent. He would hate me for trying to control his life.'

Mycroft made a small, frustrated noise.

'Your attempts to let John have what John thinks he wants are, of course, entirely commendable, noble even, brother mine; but has it ever occurred to you that all this is happening precisely because John Watson does not know himself what he wants? Unless you are prepared to expose yourself and your sentimental feelings at some point, you will lose him all over again, Sherlock, and I doubt that the consequences for the narcotics industry will be anything other than a once in a lifetime windfall.' 

Sherlock frowned at the phone.

'What exactly do you suggest I do, then?' 

Mycroft hummed. 

'Leave him be tonight, if you do not relish physically disentangling him from his companions and having to bare your breast to him in public on the Soho streets, where you are highly likely to attract the attention of the paparazzi. Doctor Watson, for all his vehement protestations about being resolutely heterosexual, is no complete stranger to physical relations with men. But I imagine you surmised that when you solved the murder of his principal former lover at John's wedding?'

'Major Sholto'?

'Major James Sholto, indeed. A good man, and a fine and brave soldier, but lacking the matching courage to stand by his subordinate John Watson when Uncomfortable Questions were Asked during their deployment to Helmand. Something which has only built on John's deep-seated insecurities about his sexuality. I have a file, Sherlock, should you wish to read it?

'But tomorrow, please, for pity's sake, Sherlock, man up and face John. Tell him. The window to do so is not an unlimited one, I perceive, and it narrows daily. 

Now. I cannot spend more time on this minutae, I have the Brazilian Ambassador on his way and if I don't call for my tea now there will be a good chance that the Madeleines will all have been scoffed by Wrington. Goodbye, Sherlock.'

And with that, there was a soft click and Mycroft rang off. 

Sherlock stood tapping the mobile against his lip for a few moments. Then he donned the Belstaff, and strode down the steps of 221B. Not to chase John or try to prevent him from sleeping with one or other of his new friends. He would not humiliate himself and lay himself open to having his soul destroyed like that, not tonight. 

Instead, he would try to distract himself with a particularly gory corpse Molly had got in that afternoon. He hoped working on it all night would help turn his thoughts away from those that were creeping in, of John kissing, John undressing, John making the kind of noises Sherlock imagined John might make as he was touched, as he came. 

.......................

It was going to be a long night of torture for him. One that led Molly to telephone Greg from the ladies and check that nothing had been found on the last sweep of the flat, and to suggest that a repeat might not be unwise.

She looked flushed when she returned, and Sherlock gave her a sharp look, but said nothing. She offered him a crisp. He always refused and took a handful when her back was turned. It was like a game. Tonight, he refused, and Molly got to eat the whole packet herself, her bounty untouched by the detective, who sat silently staring down his microscope even after Molly had pointed out that there hadn't been a specimen slide in it for the past half hour.......


	3. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock start to talk....but are interrupted.

The pale bright sunlight streaming in through the huge windows woke John. He winced, his head thumping, and cracked open one eye slightly to look at his watch. Nine thirty. Shit. He was going to miss another shift. Especially given the time it would take him to get into town from....wherever the fuck he was, exactly? Ealing, he thought. Somewhere near Ealing. Or Hanwell? Acton? Somewhere full of mansion flats and poorly maintained mock Tudor 1930's semis, once smart but now often subdivided. Some bits of Ealing were very nice, but.....nah. Not his style. He wondered why he was contemplating architecture of west London suburbia when he was late for work and in a stranger's bed.

He looked over at the other side of said bed. There was a mess of clothes and underwear scattered on the bed and the floor. And there was a shape, sound asleep, in the bed next to him. Smooth skin glowing, and dark curls tangled. A tattoo he hadn't noticed last night, with the legend 'It takes a man to fuck a man"... Several condoms, knotted and used, as well as a few more unopened, littered the threadbare carpeted area between the bed and the small waste basket. A lonely bottle of Champage stood balanced on some books, a meagre taste remaining at the bottom of the bottle for anyone desperate enough to drink it the morning after. 

John drank it.

After he'd drunk and wiped away the spill that rolled down his chin, the next thought that struck John was that his arse was giving twinges to remind him of last night. That was an entirely new sensation. He'd fucked men before, but last night.....last night he'd consented to being held down and fucked himself for the first time, and fucked relentlessly and hard. Now, his body was not letting him forget it. It had felt good at the time, good in that masochistic mindset that had made John think he wanted to be pinned down like a butterfly in a case and just used, just taken, to help him forget about his issues. But it was different in the cold raw light of the morning , and now.....now, he just wanted to get out of here. Quickly.

He quietly dressed and packed up his effects. Leaving his lover to wake alone, probably thankful for it, John left a note thanking him "for a great time". He didn't leave a contact number. 

Slipping from the bedroom, he made his way out to the peeling front door of the huge Victorian villa, and out into the street. He felt like something had changed within him. Like he was now in a race that he couldn't leave before the end. He knew there was no way back to a life of empty promises and married life with fish knives and drinks coasters and date nights. A different path beckoned.

Then he stared.

Standing on the street corner, leaning against the street sign and smoking what looked like the latest in a long line of potent cigarettes, was Sherlock.

..............

John shook his head, and almost turned on his heel and walked the other way. But he knew Sherlock could easily outpace him, with his Holmes lope and those bloody neverending legs. So, John walked slowly and reluctantly, and not unlimpingly, towards him. 

'Uhh. Hi.'

Sherlock peered away from him in the early morning sunshine, towards some invisible spot in the distance. John winced. Sherlock can't look at me. He knows, then. 

'Good morning, John.'

Sherlock's voice was low and rasping. Cigarettes? 

'Are you....did you....um. Well, Uhhh, what exactly are you doing here?'

Sherlock now looked at him directly for the first time. John was shocked by the appearance of his face. He'd clearly been up all night, but that wasn't unusual; rather, it was the tinge of redness around his eyes that was surprising. If he didn't know the man better, he'd think he'd been crying? Sherlock didn't cry.

Sherlock was clearly trying to keep matters on a surface level right now.

I thought you might want some company? Since you aren't answering my calls or texts, I decided to come in person.'

'How did you find me?'

No answer. Sherlock looked away again. Mycroft, thought John. God. How much did he see? 

'Yeah, ok, your creepy brother helped you out, right? Listen, I don't mean to be rude but I'm really tired, Sherlock and I'm late for work already, I need to call them.'

'No you don't, I've already done it. They're not expecting you in for the rest of the week. Family crisis.'

John looked at Sherlock again. His voice sounded almost pleading. 

'Okay. We'll go to Baker Street. We can talk if you want. But - things - aren't easy right now. I can't pretend I've got all the answers you might want?'

Sherlock inclined his head. 

..............

As they climbed the stairs to 221B, John following him, Sherlock wondered how this conversation would end? Would John leave and return to Mary, scared of living a life less ordinary? Would he continue on this spiral of drinking and encounters with young men he didn't know and didn't care about, lashing out at those who truly cared about him? Or did he, in the end, hold something in his heart for Sherlock, something so vital that it would make him care enough to stay?

The familiar door creaked open, and John hung up his coat and headed for the kitchen. Putting the kettle on, the English panacea. Headache. Put the kettle on. Cancer? Nice cup of tea'll put you right. Can't stand tea? Are you sure you're alright? Have another cup. Go on.

They sat, with the tea, in those old familiar chairs. Like themselves the chairs were utterly different, and ought to clash, and yet....they felt so utterly right. John just needed to realise that applied to them as well as the damn furniture, Sherlock thought, frowning.

............

'Mycroft thought I should speak with you......well, I thought of doing so, but he encouraged my actually seizing the bull by the horns, so to speak.'

John looked at him strangely. 

'I thought you made it a policy never to do anything your brother advised.'

That point was greeted by an owlish stare and a small defeated shrug.

'Normally, that is true. However in this case it appears that the stakes are rather higher than I had anticipated and might soon become unmanageable.'

John shook his head and smiled slightly. 

'I haven't the slightest clue what you ware on about, but do please carry on. Maybe I'm still too pissed to get what you're rattling on about?'

Sherlock took a deep breath. He felt sick, and scared, and his heart was thudding so loudly he was sure it was audible.

You....you told me you weren't gay? And you married Mary. But you've argued with Mary and you spent last night at the home of a gay thirty year old graphic designer, and I assume that was not because the surgery was looking for a new logo for the stationery?'

John crossed his arms. 

'Firstly, I never said I wasn't interested in men, Sherlock. Only that I wasn't gay, which I'm not. I'm bisexual, but historically I've had a preference for women. There's really only been a couple of men.' 

'Sholto, and....what was the chap's name last night?'

John was ashamed that he had to think for a moment. 

'Stephen.'

'All right. So you've clarified your specific sexuality. Why go out looking for a pickup? What was wrong with Mary? You only just got married?'

John shook his head. 

'You wouldn't understand, you don't....do anything, it's not your area, remember?'

Sherlock leaned forward.

'Try me.' His eyes bored into John, making him feel undressed and exposed. 

'Yeah. Well, it was okay before the wedding, before you came back, alright. Yes. And then, after that, it wasn't.'

'Wasn't okay because you stopped loving her?' 

'Not exactly. I still loved her, still wanted to love her anyway. I...uh. I started having some...problems. With um....sex. You know. Sustaining. For long enough.'

He thought he might have to explain more, but Sherlock just nodded. 

'Did you come too quickly or were you unable to sustain an erection long enough?'

John was bright red by this point, embarrassed to be talking about this, and especially with Sherlock. There wasn't anything much more hideous than telling a man who scorned sex that you couldn't perform.

'It..uh...yeah. The second. Well, most of the time.'

'When was it okay, was there any common factor?'

John couldn't look at Sherlock now. 

'Ah. um. Yeah. When we, that is to say, when I. Anally. That was...that was ok. Not vaginally.'

Sherlock had his hands steepled and John couldn't really see his expression. If he had been able to see it, he would have seen a deep fire within his gaze.

'Yet last night, when you slept with a good looking stranger, with the glory that was Stephen, you didn't choose to top?'

John stared at him. 

'If Mycroft had a fucking camera anywhere near...'

Sherlock shook his head. 

'Relax, John. No cameras, no need. You always walk slightly bow legged, but this morning you're more like an extra from High Noon.....it really doesn't take much deduction.' 

John sat back, scowling. And winced again. Shit.

'Oh. Well, yes I did. I hadn't - you know, that. Thought it was about time to try. You know....well.'

Now it was Sherlock's turn to scowl. He didn't know. He didn't want to know. He was consumed by a sharp physical pain, made up entirely of razor sharp blades of jealousy and anger.

...........

'And you didn't think you could talk to me about it?'

Sherlock knew snapping at John wasn't going to help, but he did it anyway.

John slammed his hand down on the chair arm.

'Sherlock, you don't do relationships, not sexual ones. Ever. You're all about the work. You're my best and closest friend but I didn't think you'd be interested in the gory details of my disintegrating marriage and my sexual problems?'

Sherlock brushed his hair back from his forehead. He looked sour and resentful.

'John. You consistently said you weren't gay, and now you reveal your bisexuality. Does it not occur to you that you may not be the only person for whom verbal statements are a grey area? Or do you really think you are so unique?' 

John stared at him.

'You are...married to your work. Asexual. Celibate. Whatever the reason. Whatever you choose to call it, if you call it anything. You never date, you never show interest in women or men, you spend all your time with me; well, until you were dead and I met Mary. So what the hell are you on about? Are you not married to your work after all? Did you get a divorce? Annulment? Papal bull? Dispensation from the Supreme Leader? Or what?

Sherlock sighed. 

'Make some tea, John. Earl Grey. Three bags, four minutes brewing time. We need to talk and we need tea to talk. This is still England, after all.'

.............

John didn't know it, but in his distraction and aching, he hadn't closed the front door of 221 fully. As he and Sherlock moved to their respective chairs with their emotional crutches of tea and prepared to have the most significant conversation of their lives, they heard a soft shuffle up the stairs. 

Mary. She had, a curious gait; she told John it was a hockey injury from school but Sherlock reckoned that wasn't true and it came from some incident involving whatever it was that she'd been up to prior to her sudden Florence Nightingale turn. He was grateful to her for saving John from topping himself, but couldn't stop himself hating her anyway. Not that he'd told John that. 

He was about to hate her a good deal more. 

She knocked at the half-open door and didn't wait for a response, pushing the door open. She looked surprised to see John and Sherlock sitting calmly in their chairs. She thought we'd be At It, concluded Sherlock. She blames me for John's crisis. She thinks I'm breaking them up, that we've been fucking all this time. 

He looked at John, posture stiff and hostile to both the suitors in the room, observing them silently fighting over him. Surely, Sherlock thought, she can't see that, his belligerence, and still think we two are shagging. 

Though unless John is going to end it, he really should tell her that he has been unfaithful. Just not with me. With a random stranger who looks a bit like me.

Mary looked at Sherlock with a slightly sneering smile. Sherlock stared back, cold and blankly unsmiling. 

'Tea?', he offered.


	4. Showdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary confronts John  
> Sherlock confronts John  
> John and Sherlock square up for a confrontation, with unexpected results

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut. Not happy smut. Consensual, but hmmm...

They sat in a sullen and unhealthy triangle, Mary taking the sofa, the two silent men in their chairs, the coffee table providing a psychological barrier and protection zone between them all.

Mary pointed at Sherlock. But spoke to John. 

'Well. Isn't this nice?'

John looked distinctly uncomfortable and shuffled around in his chair. Then he looked her straight in the eye. He was many things, some of which he despised himself for, but John was not a coward.

'Mary. I don't know how long you've been here, outside, possibly listening. And I need to talk to you about… the things we've been discussing.'

Mary cut in.

'I heard all of it, John. All. Of. It. I'm surprised, I have to say, that if you were going to cheat on me that it would be with some random man you picked up and not with Dracula here.’ (Slight twisted smile from Sherlock's stony face at this remark).

’I don't appreciate being made a fool out of, John. You've behaved like an utter bastard to me and we obviously have no future together. I should also tell you that I have already contacted the police and you can expect them to be in touch about the assault you committed on me.'

She turned to Sherlock.

'Maybe he'll be able to keep it up for you, darling. You're pretty enough after all and he clearly likes his arses tight and I can't imagine he'll find anything tighter than your stuck-up inbred orifice, will he?

’It may not be you that's the first man he's fucked, or been fucked by, but I wish you luck Sherlock and I give you this warning. This is a violent, angry man and worse than that, a man who is in denial about his true nature. If you choose to be with him, do not be taken in by smiley affable jumper-wearing John Watson, it's all a facade. 

She turned to John.

’At least my facade was admitted by me, John, once it was discovered. Have the decency to be honest with yourself before you hurt anyone else the way you've hurt me. I doubt you'll go to prison for the assault, but I bloody well hope they charge you and you think really hard about what you've done.

’You'll hear from my solicitor in the next few days. I'll let myself out. Thanks for the tea, Sherlock, but frankly it would stick in my throat to take anything from you.’

And with that, she was gone, red coat swishing and blonde hair gleaming as she walked down the stairs and out of John's life.

..............

John's head was in his hands.

Sherlock rose and walked to the window, watching her march off. She knocked into a mum pushing a stroller, but didn't apologise, just scowled and hurried away. The woman shook her head, picked up the soft toy her baby had dropped and walked on.

He didn't look at John when he spoke.

'You don't have to tell me. Not if you'd rather not. What Mary is referring to.'

John sighed heavily. There was a long pause before he spoke. Sherlock waited.

'No, she's right, I've treated her like shit and I deserved what she said. Though I'm shocked that she's gone to the police. We were having sex and we'd, you know, done anal the night before, but this night it was vaginal and then I stopped that, I couldn't come and I took her. Umm, anally again. But we didn't have a conversation about it, I assumed she was OK with it, which I know I shouldn't but I could feel my cock losing interest and I just, kind of did it. She wasn't happy. I mean, she was happy with having sex, but not happy with me swapping over to doing that. I was drunk and we didn't discuss it afterwards, not until now.

'I don't know what will happen to me?'

Sherlock looked down. His voice was a quiet monotone. He was processing the fact that whilst Mary's complaint was undoubtedly motivated partially by spite and revenge, it was not entirely without arguable foundation. 

'If she has made a formal complaint, then you'll be interviewed under caution most likely. It's unlikely you would be charged with rape, given there was acknowledged to be consent for sex and anal sex was a recent agreed practice between you, but it's possible. More likely though, you might be cautioned or charged with a lesser sexual assault. Or they might take no action, deeming it to be poor communication rather than deliberate assault.'

John looked at him.

'We were trying to have a proper conversation before she got here and now you learn I might get banged up for sexual assault. Do you want to continue the conversation or shall I pack my bags now? I'd understand.'

He looked dejected and bitter.

He was shocked when the next minute he was knocked full flat against the wall and Sherlock's lithe bony frame was covering his own. Not only that, but there was no hiding the arousal his 'asexual or celibate' flatmate was displaying.

Sherlock was breathing hard, and seemed suddenly angry.

'I want you, John, to stop what you are doing, stop sleeping with strangers and face who you ARE. Stop worrying about being the picture of domestic perfection. Stop rejecting your true nature and being ashamed of yourself. Face whatever Mary feels she needs to throw at you, she's come out of this pretty badly and you need to treat her with respect from now on. Respect because you married her and you never should have done that to her.

'Most of all, I want you to face me and tell me the truth about what you feel for me. Anything? Nothing? Do you like me? Love me? Desire me? Because I cannot see you flailing around, fucking other men and ripping me in two. I need to know if you feel anything for me. And I don't want you to trail along, unwilling to make a decision. I won't be dragged down like you dragged down Mary.

'A real man, John, isn't defined as a man who fucks women, whatever orifice they use. Though some real men do fuck women of course, but that isn't what defines you as a man. A real man is a man who looks in the mirror and sees what he is and is proud of it, accepts it and loves his life. 

Live your life John, whatever that life might be, but tell me where I stand. Because I need to know.' 

.............

John looked shell shocked. Then he flipped. Sherlock found himself swung round so that all of a sudden it was he who was crowded against the wall. John was breathing through his nose, loud breaths. He seemed angry.

'You fucking arse, Sherlock. Fucking arse. I mourned for you. I loved you. And you let me marry Mary, you even organised the bloody wedding. The venue. The flowers. The dresses. Everything. And now, now, you tell me you have feelings for me. Push me against a wall. Demand that I come clean and come out?

'Well it's not going to work like that. I'm not coming out. Not yet, maybe not ever. I… don't know if I love you. I thought I loved Mary and look how that ended up! I want you though, oh yeah, I want you badly and after we finish this little chat I'm going to have you, Sherlock, I'm going to fuck you so hard you can't walk. Because I think that's what you need, you arrogant fucking, fucking prick.'

Sherlock swallowed hard. John was still furious and Sherlock knew that it meant that John was going to be rough, for their first time. And not only their first time… Sherlock's first time. Other than the occasional medicinal wank, he'd always steered clear of bodily stuff and especially entwining with other people. He found the idea of coitus unhygienic, distasteful, pointless. Yet he was going along with this. More than going along with it, he was diving head first into a situation he should be running away from as fast as his legs could carry him.

He wondered how rough John was planning to be? He made a tentative attempt to extricate himself from John's grasp. And promptly found his legs taken from underneath him and he was now lying flat on the floor, winded, with John sitting squarely on his hips. He squirmed and tried to wriggle free, using his hands for leverage to raise himself, only to find in return those same hands now swiftly bound together. John really did mean this then? Was this a punishment for the two years he'd tortured John with his fake suicide? Or a reward for coming back? He concluded that John thought it a punishment, but he, Sherlock thought it both.

He became aware that his body was voting with its endorphins and his flagstaff prick had voted for 'reward'. John noticed too and smirked.

'You like this, then, do you? I did wonder. I hope you can maintain that for a while, because you aren't going to be allowed to come for a long time, Sherlock, not until I've come in your arse and you're so sore you might not even be able to come.'

The words sent shivers of excitement and anticipation up Sherlock's spine.

John grabbed him by the chin and turned his head.

'Do you want this? I need to know.' His eyes were burning like points of burning arrows and Sherlock could only nod, two, no, three times, then his head was roughly released and he was being led to the bedroom. His bedroom. Not John's. He wouldn't be able to forget this easily, then, he would be reminded every night of tonight, if this night was all there was to be.

............

It wasn't how he'd imagined losing his virginity to John. He'd had an image of a forest clearing, a soft blanket, and ecstasy. Or perhaps a country house hotel, all thousand thread counts and butter pastries, while John sank into him and he passed into a blissful fourth dimension of existence.

Instead he was being frogmarched into the scruffy and bedroom, wrists still tied, thrown down on the bed, and legs spread by a small ex-army doctor who was clearly having one long bad day at the moment and was going to jump him very shortly.

No one in their right mind would choose this.

Thankfully, Sherlock concluded, he was (a) rarely in his right mind according to most of polite society (b) desperate enough in his desire to feel John's body close to him, that he would accept the conditions being an obvious anger fuck and John insulting Sherlock and himself by screwing him while inwardly still chanting 'not gay'.

..............

Sherlock was angry with John, though. He was terrified and furious with him and matched with John's own self hatred and fear of Mary's actions in reporting him, it made for a heavy and toxic combination.

Sherlock decided to make a fight of it, if only for his self-respect. He said nothing to John, but as John undid his wrist restraints, Sherlock brought up his feet lightening fast and smashed them into John's jaw. The look of shock and surprise on John's face was quickly replaced by fury as he saw Sherlock nervously giggling at him.

Sherlock steepled his fingers and whispered. 'Go on then, take me down. If you can.'

He barely finished the sentence before a fist made contact with his ribcage and all the air seemed to leave his lungs. Cracked? Possibly bruised. He responded with a flick of his long leg and upended John so he ended up on his back. John flicked back up.

'You fucking prick, Sherlock. Every time you strike me that's one finger less you get in prep. Understand?'

Sherlock understood but he was fired up now with his frustration at John and responded only with a punch to John's face. John's nose began spurting blood freely. Sherlock's wrists were bleeding where the restraints dug in.

John had had enough of this. Before he knew what was happening, Sherlock found himself on the floor, his trousers and underpants around his knees and John was unzipping himself.

Sherlock couldn't resist one last jibe.

'Really, John, for someone who claims to be entirely heterosexual you do seem to be awfully keen on both fucking and being fucked up the arse...' 

It was the last words he spoke as a belt was shoved in his mouth and tightened until he couldn't speak. Gagged. And his thighs were kicked apart still further.

..............

John's cock, hot and crimson-hard, swiped over Sherlock's backside and he gasped. The next moment he groaned and spasmed in pain, as John took hold of his dark curls and yanked hard just as he forced his way into Sherlock's body, into his unprepared, unlubricated and unwelcoming hole.

Sherlock hadn't really known what to expect but the level of pain took him by surprise. His erection flagged as he moaned in pain. Biting down on the pillow he tried to free his hands, only to find John's hand firmly pressing down on them. He felt like a small, undefended island, welcoming a visitor who instead of exchanging gifts of goodwill, took what he could of the bounty of the place and left the inhabitants bewildered and afraid.

He wondered vaguely as his head smashed against the headboard, whether it was in fact possible to be split in two by rough sex. He tried looking back at John, but it gave him little comfort. The man's face was screwed up into a rictus of fury and arousal, eyes close, muscles at full tautness as he hammered relentlessly again and again.

Enough. This had to stop. John. Had to stop.

Sherlock lifted his head up from the pillow and yelled at the top of his voice

"RED. RED. JOHN. STOP"


	5. The sum of his history

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of their sexual encounter  
> Sherlock discovers more about John's childhood and past.

When Sherlock shouted "RED", over and over, in a strange tone of voice that John had never heard him use, for a moment John was disorientated and confused. They'd never discussed safewords, obviously, because they'd never been in a relationship.

But he heard the fear and grief in that voice, its desperate quality snapping through the air like static and the effect was instant. John, making the right choice for the first time in weeks, stilled and reared back immediately in horror, his near-to-coming penis slipping suddenly from Sherlock, making the detective gasp at both the aching loss and the sharp sour stabs of discomfort replacing it. Sherlock sank his head down into the pillow and slumped boneless onto the bed, shoulders heaving in great gulping breaths. It was impossible to tell if this was panic attack, uncontrollable crying or plain, simple pain.

Grabbing Sherlock by the shoulders, John looked at his face. Seeing the expression there, John ran for the bathroom, arm across his face. Who he was hiding from, wasn't clear. Maybe it was John himself, whoever that was these days. The sound of retching filled the air. When John returned, clean scrubbed, white-faced and subdued, Sherlock was lying huddled up in the bed covers and when he spoke, Sherlock's voice was quiet.

'I think we need to talk, John. Before things get any more out of control.'

'Do you want to talk in the sitting room?'

'No. We'll talk here. I don't think I could sit in the chair at the moment.'

That made John wince.

'I… uh.... I'm sorry, Sherlock. About - that. That's not the way it should have been. I don't know what I was doing, what I was thinking... And yeah, hmm, that's happening a lot. I don't know what I'm doing. God. I just said that didn't I? And I hurt you. Fucking hell, please tell me you're OK? Talk to me, I want things to be all right. I just want everything to be all right.'

Sherlock looked at him with sadness in his eyes.

‘My assessment is that I will not require stitches, but that antibiotics and specialist medicated cream would be advisable.

‘Don't worry. I'm not Mary and you had consent. I thought it would be okay, that anything you did would be bearable because - well, anyway. I thought that. But it wasn't true. It was too much, you were too much and I shouldn't have agreed to it. Not with you in the state you were in.’

John shook his head. There was a tear at the corner of each eye.

‘Nope. You don't get to carry the blame. Look at the state of you, Sherlock. Just look at you! can't carry on like this.’

John stumbled to his feet shaking his head and went to the door.

Sherlock held his breath.

....................

John looked as if he was about to say something, but he instead just tapped his broad strong fingers against the door.

Sherlock asked the question.

'Why are you so afraid, John? So afraid of being labelled as bisexual, as not straight? Why does it terrify you so much that you become a drunk man and a violent man and the caring and loyal man the world knows melts away? Why?’

And as he stared at John standing defeated and crushed in the dark gloom of the doorway, Sherlock was, despite his nudity, his injuries and his distress, back into deduction mode, analysing events, personalities, off hand remarks and clues.

He looked down, staring at the stained and crumpled sheets. Concentrated. Processed.

And he knew.

................

By the time he looked up again, John had left. Sherlock was left without an audience for his grand reveal, although given he was grandly revealing everything bodily it was probably for the best.

His failure to see it had cost him dear; he had lost his virginity to a man he loved beyond all earthly measure and yet the whole experience had felt like a violent assault.

Uniquely since the death of Redbeard, Sherlock Holmes lay alone on a bed, alone in a bedroom and cried his heart out.

................

When he finished with ridiculous tears, Sherlock donned pyjamas and robe and abandoned his bedroom (now sporting bad memories) and decamped to the sofa in the living room.

The skull, Billy, stared down at him reproachfully from the mantelpiece. Although he wasn't actually sure if it was a Billy or a Tilly. The features were somewhere in the middle of typical male/female alignments. If truth be told, Sherlock himself sometimes felt a little like that. Not dysphoric as to his male gender, but fluid to an extent. It wasn't something he and John had talked about. Maybe it never would be. But he hoped they might still do so, in time, if the kind healing John ever returned and left the cruel and angry John behind him.

For now he scowled up at Billy. And then shouted.

'Do not dare to judge me, you. Not now. I thought I could handle it, that physical thing. That it was our moment and I had to seize it. I didn't realise how bad things were. Not at all. So do not look at me like that.'

And he turned the skull to face the wall, like a schoolboy (or girl) in disgrace.

...........

He rang Mycroft. Of course he did. 

Mycroft, who provided large spotted hankies and covered up for Sherlock's car-crash of an adolescence and university years, mopping up his calamities, smoothing over his trail of outraged acquaintances and tutors. Mycroft, who would never understand or agree with almost anything Sherlock did, but who would willingly lay down his own life and the safety of his beloved England, in order to preserve his younger brother's freedom to commit the heinous deeds.

In a way, Mycroft seemed like he lived partly through Sherlock. All the exuberance and recklessness and passion which should have been split between two brothers, had instead been sunk into one body, with the other able to direct and puppet master the entertainment. It made for an unhealthy and at times resentful theatrical presentation to the world.

Mycroft was not in the mood for Sherlock's emotional trough. He listened as Sherlock hinted that he might have rowed with John, that they may have become somewhat familiar physically, that it did NOT go well, and that John had gone, he knew not where. 

He asked Mycroft for John's file. It had been offered to him before, sure, but he'd always declined it, preferring to create his own from the date he met John at Bart’s, as though his life and John's too only really began from that date, everything else being mere preparation.

Mycroft muttered something like 'About time, too' and said it would be couriered to Sherlock within half an hour.

It was only as Sherlock was preparing to ring off, that Mycroft said,

'Are you alright, Sherlock? If you need me, please say. Don't go quiet and then go missing. I don't want to fish you out of a drug den, or tell Mummy they've fished your decomposing corpse out of the river?'

Sherlock muttered something about a file to read and then mumbled something else about 'busy' and 'not interfering'.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, bid his farewell, and rang off. Who knew what Sherlock was up to?But interesting, he mused, that he had finally wanted that file...

............

Less than an hour later, Sherlock was deeply absorbed in John's personal file. It was about half an inch thick and contained all the usual official type of document, some fading, some more recent.

He learned some interesting if irrelevant stuff. That John came top in his Cycling Proficiency Test and had a four star certificate from the British Amateur Gymnastics Association. That he was mildly allergic to most seafood and had a relatively large heart and lungs for his size. That he had once had a painting of a wine bottle and a cheeseboard Highly Commended by the National Exhibition of Children's Art (8-11 yo category) (sponsored by Cadbury's) and had won a dozen Creme Eggs and a glossy poster of Rolf Harris...

 

............

But he also learned information which confirmed his earlier deductions. Because in that plain Manila foolscap file, he found information that John never talked about. Information about his parents, his childhood and in particular about Major Peter Watson. John's father. A man who, it appeared, was a character who had sailed close to the wind whilst in the army, dodging several cases of alleged bullying and assault of junior soldiers and whose record after leaving the army seemed to have become a lot, lot worse.

Sherlock chewed his lip as he read the printout of charges, convictions and cautions that Watson senior had been nailed for. They began about a year after he left the army under something of a cloud (allegations of mistreatment of detainees, unproven but officer encouraged to seek another path in life) and majored in domestic violence. Back then, of course, keeping the wife in her place by knocking her around a bit when you came back from the pub was, while not condoned, certainly not seen the same way as it is now. And there was no such crime as rape if the victim and perpetrator were married. So almost all of the early entries on the list were allegations not proceed with, or cautions under minor general assault crime logs.

................

As Sherlock read on, however, even the relaxed-ish 80s attitudes to assaults couldn't stop the list from becoming more serious. Convictions now; and there started to be entries involving the two children. One only featured at this stage. John Hamish Watson. Harriet would escape until she started to rebel as a teen, but John clearly annoyed his father just by his mere existence. Sherlock did some quick calculation. The first conviction for assaulting John (with a belt buckle was when he would have been six years old.

Sherlock didn't really wish to continue reading this litany of crimes, but forced himself to do so, knowing that the level of detail was far beyond what would normally be included in a disclosure, Mycroft's file incorporating as it did the cautions, the spent convictions and also details on each of the entries.

The entries got more serious as John got older and Sherlock realised that a lot of the 'old rugby injuries' that had made him wonder why John bothered with a sport he'd clearly been rubbish at and little more than a punch bag, were actually down to someone else treating him, deliberately and frequently, as a punch bag. John had lied to him, and lied big.

Why?

..................

He had to leave that question for now, because John wasn't here and he flicked forward to John's own time in the Army. Smiling at the solemn face of an eighteen year old John, yet struck by a pang of what he thought normal people might recognise as regret, he read terse statements about the young man's reasons for joining the army (medical sponsorship, independence from his family (I bet, thought Sherlock), desire to save lives and to travel). Even John's medical report when he joined up showed evidence of reasons for escaping. Several part healed broken ribs and a misshapen little finger, the latter claimed as a rugby injury, but the medical examiner had noted that "this seemed unlikely given the stated date of last rugby activity and the date the injury must have been sustained").

Sherlock moved on, through details of John's training and deployments. It all seemed to be in Apple pie order, many commendations, positive feedback and reviews, and items of interest such as John's specialist sniper training, undertaken despite his role not requiring such skills. That cabbie never stood a chance.

And then Sherlock came upon the second of the revelatory clutches of information. Not the sins of Watson senior, which Sherlock had deduced, but this time, rather less positive information about John.

About John and about one Major James Sholto.....


	6. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock discovers more about John's Army past. 
> 
> He has to decide whether to share his knowledge with Mary in an attempt to dissuade her from pursuing sexual assault charges against John.

It wasn't a court martial. Just a disciplinary procedure.

Two officers, accused of breaking army rules on fraternisation. It became clear from reading the transcript that the formal process was instigated because there had been previous complaints of favouritism from several soldiers in John's unit. The men had been moved to separate units. Which was why, of course, John Watson was not blown up along with all of the rest of Sholto's unit that awful day when Sholto became a hero and a villain all at the same instant and why instead, John Watson was standing in the path of a bullet through the shoulder earlier that same month.

Sherlock wondered for a moment whether John's shooting was something John had, maybe subconsciously, sought? But flicking through the file he discovered there was no doubt that John was caught while exhibiting great courage under enemy fire. He was an MC. Military Cross. Sherlock hadn't known that. Where did he keep the medal? It wasn't on his dress uniform, those were just regular gongs, Sherlock had memorised them and looked them up when idly riffling through John's belongings. (Yes he knew that was Bad, the riffling, but he was a detective, remember and you can't be a good detective without… err... breaking eggs… or in this case, feeling the thick fine wool of the dress uniform between his fingers and breathing in the faint smell of the parade room, boot black, brass polish and of John. Of sweat and desert gravel. Of the cordite of Aldershot and the baking deadly plains of Afghanistan).

So Sholto and John saw much less of each other in the short period between their separation and John being felled by a sniper nearly as good as him but probably only half his age and half as well-fed.

That desperation to see one another, that urgency, had bred in the two men a need which had caused them to throw aside some of their normal discretion. It shouldn't have been a problem, wouldn't have been, except one of the guys in Sholto's unit was less than impressed by the (justified) dressing down he'd had off his commanding officer Sholto a couple of days earlier and was looking for revenge. He got his opportunity because his shared tent was next to Sholto's and he heard Sholto leave in in the early hours one Sunday morning. He'd actually been one of the complainers about favouritism to John Watson and he'd seen Watson return to Camp Bastion from one of the remote outposts earlier that day. Now, he put two and two together.

................

Normally John and Sholto's activities had been limited to blowjobs and handjobs. But John was keen to do more. Sholto felt that, having done this stuff before and John not, it might be easier for John to be top, this first time. John expected Sholto would want to fuck him, but was honestly relieved. He hadn't quite come to terms with the idea of being penetrated yet. And he certainly hadn't come to terms with the wider implications of what he and James, an officer of a more senior rank, were doing.

Unaware that they were being shadowed and watched by a man with both a grudge and a smartphone, less than half an hour later John was mind blown by being balls deep in Sholto's backside, groaning as he struggled to stave off the need to come much more quickly than would technically be polite. His struggle was in vain. This was mind-blowing. As he gave into the arousal and threw his head back, drawing himself half out to slam back in and half bury his ex-CO in the desert sands in a remote corner of the base, the silent still shots were taken. The two men didn't see anything, they didn't hear anything and that meant that the first they even knew of the photographs' existence was when they were standing before a senior officer, one not known for his enlightened views on "men who have sex with men" in his regiment. He'd been known to use less charitable descriptions for those who indulged in this manner.

John, who was questioned first, was devastated but defiant. Yes, he was in a relationship with James Sholto. Yes, it was sexual, not that he could deny it given the pictures of his dick, half in James, taking him roughly from behind. Yes, he believed the informant had malicious motives for reporting the incident. No, he would not apologise. No, he could not give an undertaking not to repeat it. Yes, Sholto was the only other soldier, male or female, with whom he had fraternised whilst on deployment.

John knew his belligerence would cause him greater grief than a grovelling apology. What he did not expect, was to be betrayed by James.

..............

James didn't suggest coercion, exactly, but he did make it sound as though John had been very persistent in his chasing of James. That he had been surprised by John's insistence on taking the sexual relationship to a new level. It wasn't true and Sholto knew it. But the Army was his life, in a way it wasn't for John, who had medicine going for him as well as being a squaddie and Sholto was in this instance, a coward, saying anything that might make his culpability less marked and in particular, avoiding any suggestion that he had pressured the junior officer into the relationship or sexual activity. He thanked his lucky stars that electing to bottom made it look to ignorant outsiders that he was made to submit. 

Nothing could be further from the truth but it didn't matter.

Sholto was reprimanded but largely escaped unscathed. John would have been sentenced to a month of drill and menial chores, but they couldn't spare his medical skills, so instead he was curfewed straight after dinner unless out on patrols and a serious reprimand was placed on his file. The kind that meant that a repeat would mean potential dishonourable discharge.

John was almost destroyed by it. He had one month of miserable lonely curfews and then he was shot being a hero.

A handwritten note in the file showed that John had written to James Sholto, both before and after Sholto's own calamitous exit from the Forces. A total of eighteen letters... Sholto had replied to exactly none of them and the last three were returned to sender, addressee unknown.

It was not until John's wedding that James re-entered his life and then it was brief and bittersweet. Sholto and John were both changed men, Sholto by disfigurement and victimisation from people he felt he could not retaliate against because they had lost so much and because - just perhaps - they were right; John by Sholto's rejection and his treatment by the authorities just confirming to him that he could not be openly bisexual, it wasn't safe to be, it wasn't good to be, he didn't want to be.

...............

Sherlock sighed and put down the file. John's anger, his self denial and revulsion were all too understandable now. He cursed James Sholto for messing up John's first and only proper relationship with a man. By denying the importance of their relationship and its voluntary nature on both sides, he had sided with the homophobes who were judging John. It must have sounded like a panel of John's fathers multiplied into clones sitting there barracking him. Sherlock wondered, too, if some of the beatings John had suffered had been as a result of tentative experimentation or even just the suggestion that he might not be 100% heterosexual as a teenager. John's father was dead of course, a heart attack suffered whilst in the middle of beating his wife, which seemed just, in a way. Sherlock wasn't going to be able to tell him what he thought of his treatment of his son.

............

Sherlock rang Mycroft. Mycroft was in his office, which resembled a cross between a country club and a dungeon but with more gadgets.

'I need you to find John a new therapist, Mycroft. Ella is fine as far as she goes for PTSD but clearly hasn't managed to get John to open up about a lot of other things.'

Mycroft was concerned.

'I hope that learning this fact has not put you at any… risk, Sherlock? You did insist that the internal cameras were removed but I... '

Sherlock interrupted him.

‘There has been nothing… non-consensual, Mycroft, physically speaking. But we talked and… some other events happened, he is clearly in deep distress and I am in no position to help him get through it, other than by being here.'

Mycroft sniffed slightly.

'I do not think you are being entirely forthcoming with me, Sherlock. Let me rephrase that. I know for certain that you are undoubtedly not being transparent. But I will do as you ask. Please, however, give me your word that you will not put yourself in harm's way in your desire to help your distressed companion?'

Sherlock was relieved that his putting himself in harm's way had already happened, allowing him to answer positively. And who was he to know what might happen in the future to negate his oath?

'I promise. Just text me the contact details, will you and get off my case?'

'As you wish, ungrateful brother mine.'

As Mycroft touched the end call button and then checked to ensure the connection was no longer live, he tapped on the desk. He was certain that Sherlock and John had finally had sexual relations, and equally certain that his baby brother had not had a good experience of it. He decided he would need to see Sherlock, to make sure he was physically unharmed. Because, if he was not unharmed, a crisis over his sexuality would seem like a minor inconvenience to John Watson in comparison to the tornado that would be unleashed.

For now, he activated the tracker on Sherlock's phone. He didn't have it on all the time, worried that Sherlock might detect it when deconstructing the phone's software and hardware when bored in a dentist's waiting room or some such, but now was the time to know where his brother was and more importantly, through that knowledge, know to whom he was speaking.

The Google map showed Sherlock leaving Baker Street and heading in a taxi, seemingly to John and Mary's flat in Hackney.

................

 

John Watson got back to Baker Street about three hours later, his slow, heavy tread eloquently spelling out his defeated mindset. He hadn't made any dramatic gestures reflecting his inner turmoil whilst he'd been gone. Instead, he'd sat in an indifferent pub near Blackfriars and drunk himself stupid. Then, when the landlord said that he wasn't serving him any more booze and John had shrugged and pointed at him accusingly, then fallen over as he tried to lean on a stool to turn around, he had staggered the hundred yards to the steps leading down from the Victorian metalwork of Blackfriars Bridge to the riverside path along the Thames. When he got down to river level, he leaned over the concrete wall and stared into the murky water as it rushed past, endlessly flowing, cleaner than it looked and certainly much cleaner than in earlier decades, but not so clean you'd want to swim in it.

That was okay. John wasn't thinking about swimming. He was thinking, specifically, about watery activities involving not swimming. But there were too many people. Too many do-gooders ready to stop a drunk man from drowning himself, at least by daylight. And there was no point in drowning yourself only to be rescued. That way just meant a bad ear infection and mild hypothermia. Though, he thought as he gazed up to the railway bridge, there was always the trains. Not much chance of failure there, if you could hold your nerve long enough for it to be too late to leap free.

As he stood, calmly assessing the merits and demerits of different methods of topping himself, he noticed the CCTV camera on the towpath seemed to be focused on him. He staggered along a way, to see what happened. Could just be an assiduous CCTV operator worried (rightly) that he might jump into the river. But he thought not. CCTVs tracking him were the M.O. of one man he knew. And he knew these ones had sound. So John Hamish Watson turned to stare up defiantly into the camera, stuck his middle finger up and told Mycroft to fuck off and leave him the fuck alone. 

.............

Sherlock reached John and Mary's flat. Ringing the doorbell, installed by the previous elderly tenant, the sound of "Greensleeves" tinkled on. Eventually a shape appeared behind the door and Mary opened the door.

She looked annoyed but not entirely surprised to see him. He suspected that she'd been watching him from the end of the street. She didn't miss much.

'I suppose you want to come in. You'd better make it quick. I have an appointment at the Hackney police station at six. They want me to come in and give them my statement and confirm that I want to make a formal complaint against John.'

Sherlock didn't respond to that bait, instead merely murmuring 'Thank you' and brushing past her into the minimalist white painted front living. It had a bay window, letting in lots of sun. Sherlock preferred flat fronted Georgian architecture, or at most, a square fronted bay. That had a more functional aesthetic and a more pleasing appearance, he believed.

But they were not here, standing stiffly and with teeth not far off being openly bared, in order that they could discuss the niceties of building facades.

She did not offer him tea. She did, however, give him leave to perch on the epicly uncomfortable sofa. (How can he bear it, Sherlock wondered, Sherlock who was used to a life of faded but comfortable antiques, enormous brass beds with eiderdowns that puffed stray duck feathers at you if you plumped them too violently, plumbing that was at best shuddering and spiteful and buildings that demanded every penny of vast fortunes simply to keep watertight. How could John live like this, in this sterile flat, pretending to be ordinary with her, when John is so much, so very much more in every way than ever being ordinary?).

As normal, Mary struck the first blow.

'If you are here to discuss the assault, bear in mind that intimidation of victims is seen as a very serious offence? Generally resulting in a custodial sentence?'

Sherlock inclined his head.

‘My intention is not to intimidate anyone, Mary. In fact, part of the reason I am here, is to acknowledge in a way that John is unable to at the moment, for various reasons, that his behaviour was unacceptable and unpleasant and that he should be making a heartfelt unqualified apology to you.’

Mary cocked her head to one side.

'Unusual, coming from you. Have you suddenly developed the human skill of empathy?'

Sherlock shook his head.

'No. But John has exhibited some challenging behaviour to me. And I have had the chance to read this' - and he tossed Mycroft's classified file on John Watson onto the coffee table - ' and I would only ask that before you go ahead with making your perfectly valid police statement, that you also read it and take it into account in whatever way you feel that is appropriate. I recognise that may be "not at all" and I accept that.'

Mary looked down at the file.

'I will read it, of course I will. Though I don't promise it will change anything.'

........

Sherlock looked at her. The set expression. The eyes somehow both laughing and cold. 

'Mary, I also came to ask you what your plans are, in respect of John and your marriage.'

His expression must have given something telling away, because the smile that came to Mary's lips was not a kind one.

'Oh. You are in deep, aren't you? You poor thing. I imagine he's blown your mind, hasn't he? And you want to know if you can keep him, or rather in this case I imagine, whether he will be free to keep you. Because there's no mistaking where the alpha is in your relationship, Sherlock. That makes you vulnerable. Do not put yourself at his feet, unless you wish to be trodden on, yes?

‘You need not worry. Our marriage was over the minute my husband demonstrated clearer than words could say that he preferred cocks to cunts, and pricks to pussies!'

Sherlock winced at her crudity but could not criticise it. It was a humiliating situation for Mary, as much as it was for John and her bitterness was natural.

'It's not really a conscious preference, Mary. On the contrary, he wants to prefer women and vaginal sex. He doesn't want all this mess. He doesn't want to want men. He doesn't even want to want me, not like that. That's why he's so angry. His body and his instincts are overriding his basic wishes. He's not going to be able to change his bodily instincts and wants, so he's going to have to come to terms with himself. I just don't have any idea about how quickly that will happen. I just hope it does happen, because if it doesn't, I worry for him, deeply.'

Mary nodded, and picked up the file.

'Thank you for coming, Sherlock. I will read this. And I will text you once I have done.'

'Then that's all I can ask of you. Thank you.'

As he turned to leave, Mary caught him with one last question.

'Have you slept together now?'

Sherlock turned, gave her a small, sad smile and nodded. It was not the smile of a happy man, of a winner. 

Then he slowly turned away once more, and left.


	7. Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock talk  
> Mary comes to a decision

The immaculate long black car was sitting silently outside John and Mary's oh-so-nice and oh-so-hateful flat. Sherlock scowled when he saw it there and rather gratuitously kicked the Watson wheelie bin. With bad grace, however, he climbed into the car.

Mycroft, sitting in the rearmost seat, observed his brother's slightly awkward movements, and drew some initial conclusions. Then he saw the clear marks on both of Sherlock's wrists. As Sherlock went to sit down, he found his injured wrist held in a surprisingly hard and painful grip for a for a few moments. Mycroft released it and looked into his eyes. 

'Tell me I do not need to weight that man down with concrete and sink him in the Thames before sunset, Sherlock? And tell me that you still have the capability of making that judgement, rather than being, as you appear to be, utterly compromised by your… sentimental affections?'

Sherlock shook his head. And pointed an angry finger at his brother. 

'I may be new to all this, Mycroft, in some important respects, which you delight in reminding me. I think you rather like that, actually, you the jaded sophisticate and me the unworldly child. But I am not a child, Myc, I am an adult, with the right to live my life with the minimum of interference by you and by our parents and by your spooks and cameras and bugs and phone taps. I will NOT discuss my relationship with John Watson with you.'

Mycroft looked down at his lap.

'Then let us fervently hope, little brother, that you do not end up in a situation where these words come back to haunt you.'

Sherlock smiled. And allowed himself to be conveyed back to Baker Street.

Mycroft's fingers flew over the keys of his phone. John Watson would not be able to take a piss without Mycroft's people assessing the state of his kidneys in future. 

...............

It was some hours before the self-same oblivious John returned to the house. He was hungover and reeked both of of stale alcohol and stale clothes. As he approached 221B along Baker Street, he heard the sound of a violin playing, looking up to see a tall thin figure at the window.

The music suddenly stopped. A minute or so later, as John tried to summon up the courage to approach, the front door of 221 flew open and Sherlock stood there, barefoot and pyjama and dressing-gown clad, violin and bow in hand.

'John.'

'Sherlock.' John nodded his greeting without looking up and shuffled in past Sherlock and the big black door, then hanging back so he was following Sherlock up the stairs and into 221B.

John thought Sherlock would want to talk straight away. But instead, he was wrong-footed; Sherlock was subdued and diffident. He even made tea. There were biscuits, fancy Belgian jobs, all flaky and designed it seemed to maximise trodden-in crumbs on the floor. The Demerara sugar lumps, too, that Sherlock sometimes consumed en masse when the need for energy outweighed the demands for transport starvation during a case. The teaspoons with the Holmes crest. They were solid silver and not just plated. John could tell from the weight, the heft in his hand. And the colour. Yellowish grey, not tinny and too shiny. The soft glow of old money. He stirred the tea with the spoon. His hand shook, too much. He gripped his wrist. Was it the booze, or the return of the tremor? The drink made it impossible to tell. Perhaps it didn't matter; it was present - or it was not.

..............

After tea and conscious that even he could detect that he smelt none too good, John started to rise heavily to his feet, planning to go and wash himself clean, bodily at any rate. But Sherlock got to the door first and asked John to sit, that he would draw a bath for him. Sherlock's voice was deep and quiet, but strangely it didn't sound like a query, just a statement. And then Sherlock was gone, fey and flitting like a wild animal. And so John sat.

John rubbed the arm of his chair. The fabric was old and getting threadbare. He thought it was apt. Five years ago he'd still felt young, in the army, doing what he loved. Three years ago, too, chasing Sherlock around London, eating badly, getting hurt, loving every second of the thrill. Now, he feared he'd ruined it all, his own future, Mary's too, but worst of all, he thought he might have confirmed in Sherlock's mind that trusting and loving another person was foolish and led to damage, violence and abuse. And who could blame him if he did, John thought gloomily? 

He went up to his own room, hearing Sherlock still busy in the bathroom. Sitting on the bed, he wondered how things had got to this state so quickly? He might go to prison, actual prison. Worse, he might go to prison labelled as a sex offender and he knew exactly what kind of time those prisoners had. He didn't feel sorry for them, but neither did he wish to join them.

He wasn't really intending to get the Sig out of his drawer, but a few minutes later he was still sitting on the bed and he just seemed to have done so without being aware of having done so.

Before he'd met Sherlock, he'd spent long periods just sitting, cleaning his gun or simply examining it. But he'd also spent time with experimenting. The Sig to the side of his head. The Sig in his mouth. He tried it again now. Against his head... and then in his mouth. Just like old times.

He didn't hear Sherlock leave the bathroom, pause and then move quietly up the stairs. Not finding John where he'd left him, but his coat still on the hook, Sherlock deduced what John himself had not worked out: that there was one reason for John to return to his bare, Spartan and functional bedroom in the middle of the day. It was where he kept his gun.

John didn't intend to shoot himself, not today anyway. But Sherlock couldn't deduce that, blinded by fear, an experience unique to the question of John's safety and this was the reason that he padded slowly up the stairs, silently and holding his breath.

As Sherlock swung open the door to John's attic room, that small door with the chunk cut off one top corner to accommodate the roof line, he saw John sitting on the single bed, with the gun in his mouth.

...........

Sherlock exhaled. He extended one shaking hand out in front of himself. Gripping onto the door frame, he spoke very quietly and very calmly.

'John. It's me, Sherlock. Please put the gun down. I know things are difficult. This is not the answer. I promise you. You are safe. Please, just give the gun to me. Please.'

John looked at him in confusion and then slowly withdrew the barrel from his mouth, lowering the weapon to his lap and clicking open to show that the gun was unloaded.

He wanted to say to Sherlock that it was fine, that he'd just been reprising an old habit, but he felt a sudden wave of something akin to loss as he removed the gun from its violation of his person and suddenly he held out the weapon for Sherlock to take and bent over at the waist, clutching his stomach and mumbling something incomprehensible.

Sherlock didn't look angry, just resigned.

'Come downstairs, John. Let's have some tea. We still need to talk.'

And John followed him. Sherlock texted Mycroft and told him to arrange for John's gun to be removed, at least temporarily and then made the tea. But before they could talk, Mary rang and Sherlock left John staring into his rapidly stewing drink while he moved to the bedroom to take the call. 

John's gaze barely flickered, though he must have heard Mary's voice.

..................

She didn't beat about the bush.

'I read it.'

'Ah.' Sherlock wasn't sure what response was appropriate.

'You do realise this is the shittiest form of emotional blackmail, don't you?'

'Mmmm. I prefer to see it as presenting the fullest facts and background available. It would happen at any criminal trial, and I thought it would be less damaging to John if it was available earlier. Only because I think it's relevant to his current mind-set.'

'If that's the case, why hasn't he gone through this with any of his myriad of ex girlfriends? Three continents, remember?'

Sherlock felt like shouting. But he didn't.

'Because he MARRIED you, Mary. He loved you, still loves you and he married you . He tied himself into that and only by doing so did it become apparent that it wasn't something he could sustain. Not being married to you, as such, but being in a permanent, settled, safe heterosexual relationship. His symptoms are physical but it's deep in his head.'

Mary was thinking at the other end of the line.

'Listen, Sherlock, I'm going to make this brief. I read the file and because I read it and only because of that, I'm not going to proceed with the case, or ask for charges to be pressed. That doesn't mean I'm any less angry with John, both about what happened in bed and also maybe more about him marrying me when he must have had some inkling that all was not well with him. I don't appreciate being part of someone thinking if they try hard enough, they can be happy with someone, being part of their attempt to change themselves. I had plans, you know. For us, long into the future. He's taken them from me, at least for now.'

She sighed.

'Try and sort him out, can you? I got the impression when you visited, that you two are not seeing eye to eye and even that he may be losing it. I - I hope he's not abusing you too. Just... Be careful, will you? Walk away if you need to, if he's not ready to accept himself, because if you don't, both of you could suffer.'

Sherlock smiled a small smile.

'Mary, I am grateful to you and think you are behaving very creditably. And I take your warnings seriously. I agree with you that John is still at a loss, I only hope I can help him navigate his way. I will ask my brother's people to come to remove his belongings and they can also arrange the paperwork. You will not need to see him.'

Mary sounded resigned.

'Good. I don't want to. Not at the moment. I'm too angry with him. I know it's probably not all his fault. It's his Dad's fault and the Army and Sholto, but I can't help feeling really angry with him. I feel like he's visited all his demons on me and it's not fair to do that to someone you say you care about. He should have been honest with me and with himself from the start.’

Sherlock wanted to get back to John but tried to be kind, inasmuch as Sherlock actually knew how to.

'I know. You're making the right decision. And you're right to feel angry. I will ring you tomorrow and let you know the arrangements. And Mary, thank you. For... all you did for John when I was missing and all you have done for him since. I'm just sorry he couldn't give you the same back.'

'Yeah - just - me too.'

..............

Sherlock swiped his phone off and strode back into the living room. John's tea was untouched. Sherlock stood looming over him and picked up the cup, handing it silently to John, who looked surprised, nodded and started to drink the lukewarm tea.

.............

 

Sherlock wasn't sure how he was going to be able to get John to talk, but in the end, it seemed like the incident with the gun, the experience of seeing how much he had frightened Sherlock, had persuaded John that he needed to give Sherlock something back.

And of course once John started talking, there was no stopping him. It was so unlike him, to be this talkative and it was clear that he had to keep going, because to stop would have resulted in him crumbling to dust. He talked about his family and about the dull dread of the routine violence. Of growing up in a house where anything out of the perceived norm was labelled as 'perverted' and those who live differently as 'animals', 'dirty', 'scum'. (That mainly meant immigrants, liberals and especially gay people. Anyone who was different and especially if they were easily identifiable and obviously already marginalised by others like Watson senior. John wasn't so affected by it when he was small, he recalled, because at that point he didn't know what the words meant. Once he did know, he cocooned himself with the consolation that he was neither an immigrant or a gay, though he wasn't sure about the liberal part… That didn't mean he escaped the beatings though, as there seemed to be less and less need for any real trigger for those as he grew older.

It was Harry's experience that led him to firmly conclude that he was determined to be straight.

A week before she'd come out, (or rather, been forced to come out by having her cover story of a sleepover blown by a jealous mate), John who was fifteen at the time, had been propositioned in a youth club men's toilets by the cousin of a friend. The cousin, Luke, was seventeen and a gymnast, a really good one, Commonwealth Games and reserve for the World Championships, that sort of level. John had been shocked by Luke's approach, but curious enough having not been propositioned terribly often by girls to kiss Luke and liking what he found, bold and curious enough to allow Luke to back him into a draughty cubicle, to grip both their cocks and to give John a handjob which provided John with an orgasm the like of which he'd never experienced.

........

A week later, Harry was being dragged by her hair through the streets back home from her girlfriend's house and John, who had covered for her and lied to his parents, was crawling to next door where they found him in the early hours on their doorstep with three broken ribs and a dislocated finger. He claimed a stranger had beaten him up in an alleyway on the way home. The CCTV which covered the alleged mugging showed nothing, but he wouldn't budge from his story. By the time he got home from the hospital, Harry had fled to her girlfriend's house and John was left to face his father alone.

It's no wonder he jumped at the chance to join the army at sixteen and get out of there. Like kids from tough Glasweigan housing estates and boys with nothing else to do or to have from all over the country, the Army seemed to offer structure, money and camaraderie. The chance of being killed or maimed was a gamble worth taking when you had little else to gamble for.

Later he wondered why he hadn't told the truth about what his father did. He recalled that he had been frightened not so much by being taken away from his home and family by social workers, as by being left there, or worse, separated from Harry of he was taken into foster care and she was in a different placement. Harry thought he should just run away, like she did, but she had somewhere to go and he didn't. And John didn't want to leave his mother entirely alone with his Dad.  
...............

 

John was less forthcoming about Sholto, though Sherlock knew it all already (even if John wasn't aware of that). But John managed to stumble through enough of the tale that it was clear that this, too, had been deeply traumatic to his search for his identity.

John, it was apparent from his words, wanted nothing more than not to be gay or bisexual. Yet it didn't seem to be actually the sexuality that bothered him, it was everything around it. Sherlock had once said to him "It really matters to you, doesn't it? What people think?" and John hadn't been able to understand why it didn't to Sherlock.

For John, it really mattered.

For John, what other people thought was of crucial importance. And brought up in the toxic environment he had endured, he couldn't believe that anyone would like or respect him, or look past the intricacies of physical homosexual interactions, should he be unmasked as any kind of "queer".

When John finished talking, he seemed drained and introspective. Sherlock sat in his chair for a moment, and then got up and walked over to the sofa. He sat(deleted comma) and beckoned John to join him.

'Ah. Um. I'm fine here.'

John's voice was cracked and he couldn't look at Sherlock.

'You are not "fine", John. None of this is fine. Please come and sit with me.'

John looked up at him with tear stained cheeks.

'Why do you bother?....Why do you even want to speak with me?'

Sherlock was not happy to see John crying but he was slightly hopeful that it signified John facing himself. Now was the time.

'Because... I love you, John and I have never told you, though I always meant to say it. And because although I know that you want me, I need you to WANT to want me. And in time perhaps, I hope even to love me?'

................

Sherlock didn't wait for an answer. He glanced at John, saw his shocked face and then sprang to his feet and walked over to the window, staring out at the grimy but beloved street below, the people walking heedlessly to and fro, as he plucked out his own frail heart and placed it in John Watson's hands. Now he had to see if John would throw it to the ground and tell Sherlock that he was leaving, or that he only wanted a no-strings sex relationship. Or... just possibly, that he did indeed hold something in his heart for Sherlock. 

'What's the use of this? I'm going to get banged up in the nonces misery wing hundreds of miles away and Mycroft will try to separate us. I've seen the way he looks at me, Sherlock. He suspects I may harm you. God forbid that he knows I already have.'

'For God's sake, John. You had my consent. I withdrew it, you stopped. That's how these things should work. Don't martyr yourself for me. I'm not a child.

‘And you're not going to prison. I spoke to Mary. She's not pursuing the case. You're not even going to be interviewed. But the marriage is finished. I'm sorry.'

John bit his lip and after a long pause, he nodded.

'How did you persuade her? She was dead set on nailing me for it?'

Sherlock shifted in his chair. White lie time.

'She had time to calm down. Time to accept that whilst what you did was wrong, you were not intending to go beyond her consent and also that you were not in a fit state to make good judgements. And, having decided she wants out of the marriage, she knows it's not something that she is going to be risking happening again with you.'

..............

John rubbed his face.

'Is she finishing it because of the physical stuff? I wouldn't blame her, yeah, but...'

Sherlock looked at him.

'She's finishing it, John, because she thinks that you chose her in a near-vacuum populated only by your grief. Which was my fault, of course', (at this Sherlock paused and frowned), I had no idea that you would be so affected. Mycroft was supposed to keep you safe. He could only contact me via dead letter drop boxes and even then it was rarely possible.

‘In short, Mary thinks that you need to confront your own prejudice, your own fears, and accept yourself.'

'Accept myself as what?'

John rose from his chair and began to walk over towards Sherlock.

'Accept yourself as a bisexual man. Obviously.'

Sherlock gazed intently at John as he approached, but John looked down, away from the piercing stare.

'Sherlock, I…'

'It doesn't matter if you don't feel deeply for me, John. Really. I regret it, but I have the work and I managed without sentiment for almost forty years, so an unfortunate single incident need not spell disaster. We can continue to work together, as colleagues and as friends, I hope.

‘But even if that were the case, that you do not feel the way I find that I feel, you must be honest with yourself. You owe it to whatever person you do fall in love with, do want to be with, to give them that much. Can you see that, John?'

John nodded. They sat in silence for a minute or more. John's breath huffed slightly. Strangely formal in the worn and slightly tatty setting. Sherlock hardly dared breathe, trying to make no sound. How strange that his heart was exposed and at the mercy of another human being. Mycroft would have shaken his head and lectured Sherlock on his fragility, his fallibility, his fey nature and the foolish nature of all of this. Mind you, if he had known about all that had gone on, John would have been in one of those unnamed, unofficial premises that M16 operate through anonymous cover companies dotted around the land. Places with soundproof walls and unassuming facades, where persuasion and punishment are exacted in equal measure.

Suddenly, like a crack spreading across an icy lake, John seemed to come to life, to some kind of internal conclusion. A resolution. Sherlock waited still, the tension in the air almost palpable.

'You've got it the wrong way around, Sherlock."

'I have?'

Sherlock frowned. John pointed at Sherlock's chest, that narrow complex of bones that had protected his heart until he had carved it out and set it on a dainty dish for John to do with as he pleased.

John nodded vigorously.

'Yeah. Yeah, you really have. It's not that I don't care for you and that I need to tell future partners about my sexuality. I don't think I need to come out, as such, at all. Maybe internally, yes. Come to terms with who I am. Not be ashamed, despite Dad, despite Sholto.'

Sherlock breathed hard. John was being annoying. He had to tell partners. This was ridiculous. He was never going to be happy like this.

'No, John, you need to tell anyone that you might sleep with, have intercourse with, have a relationship with.'

John looked up at him now.

'I don't, because they already know.'

Sherlock stared at him.

'Who does'

'He does. You does...you do, I mean.'

Sherlock felt himself gripped by a welling wave of shock and emotion.

'There's - you mean - no plans for other partners?'

'Nope.'

'But plans for me?'

John nodded. He had a very resolute nod. You knew, if John Watson nodded, it would be so.

'Plenty of plans for you.'

But not like… the other day. Not like that?' Sherlock's voice quavered. He didn't want to be a fuckbuddy. He didn't want to go through the other day again. He didn't have the internal mental mechanism to cope with it. He was too inexperienced and too psychologically fragile.

John came close and hugged him from behind, his arms circling Sherlock's slender midriff.

'Not like that. Like this.'

And he breathed small kisses over the back of Sherlock's neck.


	8. Sustainable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'll let you read it to find out how this ends! :-))

It wasn't that easy, of course. 

John wasn't a man who had been "at ease" as a soldier or civilian, since the moment of that humiliation, of learning that telling the truth wasn't always the best policy when you are up before an army board. And that if you did, you had better make sure you knew your co-accused stood with you.

Sherlock, even worse, wasn't a man who had any experience of proper relationships at all; he barely navigated casual friendships, let alone the multiple complexities of romantic and sexual matters. To him these avenues represented a dark and mysterious world, and one with which he was unfamiliar and epically uncomfortable. 

They were navigating a route that neither really understood. But you know what they say about the road less travelled...

........

After John's lips pressed softly to his neck, having seemingly (silently, suddenly, strangely?) made a mental decision of some kind, John's lips warm and his breath sweet, Sherlock simply froze. And then leapt away like a started fawn.

'Sorry.' John raised his hands in a gesture of non aggression. Shit. Bigger. Fuck. Fuck. He tried to avoid the moment unravelling in his hands. His words came out garbled and emotional, in fact so unlike his usual speech that he wondered for a moment if he was turning into Molly.

'I guess... after the other night, it might be not good for me to touch you intimately, not without your full knowledge. That is, if you even want to progress anything? I know what you said about your feelings, but bearing in mind my behaviour, maybe you can't trust me. Which is... Fine...

‘... Well, not fine for me, but I would, you know, understand. If you felt that you didn't want to risk it. Or not risk it now. Not with me now. Maybe later when I'd sorted out my head some more. Maybe then....'

'John?'

'Yeah? Are you ok? I know that we... I mean I... I mean you...'

'Shut up now, John. Please just. You know. Shut up. I am not frightened of you. I do not feel you are a risk to me. I do NOT think I need to wait until you have had another four years of useless therapy and have a certificate to say 'I am a Qualified Bisexual Man now'.

Sherlock shifted from foot to foot, hand behind his head, twisting dark curls tightly in his fingers. John found this, this utterly exposed talking, this baring of feelings, frankly excruciating. 

'Well, umm, that's good then. I guess.'

John stood with his hands clasped behind his back like one of the minor royals at a dull function they are only attending because the big hitters with the Civil List payments and the grace-and-favour apartments in the Palace, had found something more interesting to do with their time.

Sherlock walked over to him. Stood far too close. And not close enough. 

'Obviously we need to go slowly. We both have issues. I am not accustomed to intimate touch... and rough treatment did not prove a healthy alternative at this point.'  
(Understatement of the year, he thought to himself, as John thought exactly the same).

'So I suggest that you, John, take the initiative but, for now, take things slowly.'

Sherlock took a small piece of grubby and much re-folded paper out of his suit jacket pocket.

'For the first few nights I suggest that we restrict activities to the following : kissing, touching in non intimate areas, massage and potentially blowjobs or handjobs depending on how things go...'

John smiled. It wasn't much of a smile but it was a lot more than he'd done recently so it was precious.

'Okay, that's great... suppose you give me the rest of that list and the schedule and I'll use it as a baseline?'

Which was how they ended up sitting on the sofa like two pensioners at a bus stop, with John making small humming noises and peering at Sherlock's scrawled spidery script and trying to decipher 'intercrural' and 'fisting'.....

.........

As evening drew on, their takeaway eaten, the sky outside the tall windows darkened to black, leaving only the reflected glow of the side lamps and the streetlights to illuminate the two men within. They sat together, on the sofa, curiously formal, John unwilling to step out of line and Sherlock nervous that John would have second thoughts, or that his limitation of this trial relationship to a private matter indicated more than a personal reticence and perhaps illustrated a deeper uncertainty still in John's mind.

Sherlock wondered if this would be his undoing, this doubt?

But then, later, as the evening became night, Sherlock was undone, certainly, but not by doubt. 

John first removed the plate that had contained the Pad Thai that Sherlock had purloined from John (preferring it to his own green curry), then had rained small, intent, very John-like kisses onto his mouth and his neck and his hands. Then, somehow, he was shirtless and the kisses made their way onto his body, bringing small inhalations from Sherlock who was not accustomed to allowing other people to touch him, not in that way. Well, if he was honest, not in any way if he could help it.

Sherlock heard someone breathing heavily now, as John moved lower and realised that it wasn't John making that sound.

John came back up to his mouth.

'You okay there?' He smiled. Sherlock thought if he could just take that smile and keep it for himself, in a jar, safely in his Mind Palace, then he could go through life with a lot more resilience and a lot less coke than he had to date.

'John.'

John leaned forward and kissed him. Not small kisses this time. Darting, demanding kisses, but always leaving room for Sherlock to draw back, to flee, to stop this. He had no intention of stopping it. He wasn't practised at kissing, not with, well, tongues, but he was a quick learner and he acquitted himself increasingly well, he liked to think. Certainly judging by the strange low noises coming from John, he was and even more telling was the sensation of hardness against his own flesh. He responded with added gusto.

They moved to the bedroom. The sofa or the floor was all very well, but neither of them were teenagers and the bed seemed inviting.

And then it was marvellous and revelatory. John's gentleness came down upon him and Sherlock kept waiting for things to go wrong, for him to say something stupid or John to do something that made him flee, but it didn't happen.

They didn't have full sex, not at first. At first John took Sherlock in his mouth and skilfully teased him to a mind blowing orgasm. And then they kissed and stroked and cuddled for a long while and dozed. 

And when they woke in the early hours, they were hard once more. This time they forgot all about the list and Sherlock's spidery writing and the fact that he misspelled most of the sexual acts he had listed, and some of them were categorised entirely wrongly. And John did take Sherlock, but only after an agonisingly long preparation, which by the end had Sherlock begging John to 'please, for all that was blessed and holy, get in him NOW.'

As John's cock breached him, Sherlock felt a moment of panic. John must have sensed it, because he leaned forward as much as he could without entering Sherlock too fast to be comfortable or wise, and, wrapping his arms around him, murmured to him, small words of what meaning Sherlock could not have recalled, but at that moment they felt like a comfort and a garrison to surround his whole trembling fragile heart. He ceased shaking and now his breathing was easy again. Easy but deep, panting, begging and want burning him deep inside.

And when they came, seconds apart, it was like something small but significant had altered in the order of things in the universe. 'Perhaps', Sherlock thought, as he lay boneless and sticky and full of joy, hearing John running the tap in the bathroom to bring back a damp cloth to carefully clean him with all the skill of a surgeon, 'Perhaps this is what we will have. Perhaps John will stay and let me have him for my own? Perhaps we will be happy? Perhaps it will be allowed?'

John came back into the room, then, and looked down at the pale vision spread out before him. It made him want to weep. A feeling deeper than anything he'd felt for girlfriends or Sholto, or even for Mary, dug deep into his gut. It was so sharp it was almost painful.

He just stood there for a minute, staring at the heavy lidded creature almost sleeping already, this man who never slept hardly able to keep those catlike eyes open. 'Funny', John thought. 'I don't want to come out publicly, still don't, might never want to, but if anyone tries flirting with him, I have a feeling that I may show my cards rather plainly and rather unequivocally. I may need to review that stance.'

And dropping down to a crouch, he took the warm cloth and started to smooth it lightly across the milk-white skin of the still and beautiful Sherlock Holmes. 

Outside, the blackbird in the soot stained plane tree started his melodious song, to announce the warm grey morning was come, once again, to Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The phrase 'his gentleness came down upon him' is a quotation from the sublime Joan Baez song "Love Song to a Stranger", though in the song, the phrase is "your gentleness came down upon me". If you don't know it, or her song "Diamonds and Rust" (the latter reputedly written about her relationship with Bob Dylan, then do yourself the favour of the year and get your ears around these songs :-)))
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this shortish fic! kudos and comments are the fuel for my writing engine and give me great joy, should you think either deserved. Thanks to my lovely Beta Frakme (notidiotproofed).


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